What's Left Behind
by Dance Elle Dance
Summary: She finds herself unable to compete with a dead girl. FourTris, told from the POV of Four's wife years after Allegiant, oneshot


_**Disclaimer: **__I don't own Divergent. _

_**Summary: She finds herself unable to compete with a dead girl. FourTris, told from the POV of Four's wife years after Allegiant, oneshot**_

_I have been wanting to write for this fandom for the longest time, but I just couldn't find an idea or the time to write anything at all, unfortunately. Lately, I've had a good amount of spare time, and this idea just came and smacked me with inspiration and I couldn't not write it. I really hope that y'all enjoy this little snippet! I've certainly enjoyed writing this! _

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**What's Left Behind**

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It is like this, every year.

She wakes to find his side of the bed empty, nothing signifying his presence other than the ruffled sheets and the smell of his shampoo. For a moment, she forgets what this means, and then she looks to the calendar on the wall, and her mood sours.

The birds outside sing their greeting to the new morning, but all she wants to do is scream.

The rage she feels is nothing new. Frankly, it has become so commonplace that she cannot picture a moment where she was without it - but, after all, that is not true. There are moments like that, clear moments, moments before she met the enigmatic Tobias Eaton. Or, better known as Four by most of his friends.

To her, he is just Tobias. Never Four.

There is a certain chill in the air, one that she is certain comes straight from her bones, radiating the air around her. Her posture is so stiff, there as she sits in the bed, that she is surprised her very marrow isn't made completely of ice. Her fingers still in the sheets. For a moment she wonders where the shooting pain in her hand is coming from until she looks down and finds her hands twisted in the sheets so hard her wrists ache.

For a moment she just stares straight ahead, unflinching, fighting the heavy feeling that crushes her chest, but failing. The day has hardly even started and she wants to be sick all over herself.

Sometimes, at times like this, she wonders what Tobias even saw in her. She was not Dauntless, so she doesn't possess the courage that he so admires. Really, if she were that courageous, she'd address the ghostly elephant in the room, but she never had the gumption. Which is funny, considering her Candor roots. She's supposed to be a seeker of the truth, but she can never bring herself to ask the one question whose answer she is most afraid of - and, really, that just brings out the fact that she could never be Dauntless, not like Tobias and not like the girl he still clings on to, even after all this time.

And a part of her knows it's silly, holding onto faction ideals after they've all proven to be a moot point, but she can't help herself. They seem to ring true, even now.

She looks to the window, watching as the sun peers out behind the clouds, and then drifts back behind them. It's an odd thought, but she feels as if the huge star is mocking her with its brightness, with its hope, with its_ light_.

Instead of flopping back into the comfort of the mattress like she so wants, she slings her legs over the side of the bed, her feet gently touch the cool panels of the hardwood floor and a delicate shudder goes through her. She slides her bare feet into Tobias' slippers - a selfish part of her revels in the fact that this is one thing that _that girl _can never, ever do, but then it is quieted when she realizes that _girl_ owns more of Tobias Eaton than just his _slippers_.

Snarling at her foolishness, she rises and walks to the window to shut out the sun, to shut out the very thought of this day, the day that scarred Tobias almost to the point of no return. She violently rips the curtains across the window, and the sweet darkness consumes the room, with only faint bits of sunlight peering beneath the drapes.

She wrinkles her nose and moves to the kitchen.

Plates are dirty and stacked in the sink. Her fingers itch for something to do, so she begins to wash them, by hand, piece after piece after piece. Her mind tries to focus on other things, more pleasant things, things that do not anger as much as this wretched day, or as much as this wretched feeling curling in her stomach.

A glass slips from her fingers and smashes on the tiles.

Cursing, she bends over and picks up the glass, the sharp edges slicing into her fingertips, but cares not. They are only little scratches, and a little blood never hurt anyone...

Except for _hers_. The day _that girl's _blood was shed, the day she breathed her last, that was the day she lost Tobias.

She had lost him before she even knew him, and that was really the tragedy of it all.

The pain that shoots through her in that moment is enough to make her clench her fists tighter around the glass shards, driving their edges into her palms this time. She winces, regretting this course of action almost immediately, and then moves to dispose of the shards in the trash.

A harsh breath is exhaled as she moves over to the window, gazing out at the sunny day, waiting for her husband to return. He will, she knows, when the day has turned to night and the stars have creeped into the sky. He'll return with flowers for her and an apology on his lips. He'll return with a tiredness to his eyes, eyes that are red and puffy - but he denies crying. He always denies crying.

He'll return with a haunted look to his face and smudges of dirt on his knees.

She'll accept him back with open arms - open arms and a stern face and rigid shoulders.

He'll go to sleep that night. Or, at least, he will try. He'll stay up half the night, tossing and turning so much that she'll have to place a hand on his shoulder and whisper to him; he'll jolt at the touch, nearly calling her by _that girl's _name. She'll smile and tell him to sleep and he will, exhausted by the day's events, exhausted by his ritualistic mourning, exhausted by his obsession.

Tobias will fall asleep and dream of _her_, will whisper her name in his sleep. The next morning he will apologize for his disruptiveness and their year will continue as if the previous day had not happened at all. It will continue as if the ghost of his impossible lover does not hang over them.

And then the year will pass, and she will forget - or, at least, she will try to - and he'll call her by her own name and not _hers_. They'll smile and laugh and make love and she'll feel as if she's in the first year of her marriage all over again.

But then, this day will roll around yet again, and the cycle will continue - endless, unforgiving, _dauntless_ \- as merciless as it was the first time she experienced it.

All the while, she tells herself that she does not hate Tris Prior.

Somewhere, the Candor within her whispers, _You're a liar._

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_**End.**_


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